Not a Flowers Kind of Girl
by luvscharlie
Summary: Arthur Weasley has found the girl of his dreams, now he just has to find an original way to get her attention. Arthur/Molly


_Not a Flowers Kind of Girl _ by Luvscharlie

_Warnings: __Adult language, 2__nd__ Person POV, they're underage, but other than some frank titty-ogling and teenage lusting, there's not much to scare you away, I probably took a little bit of license with ages, but nothing to directly contradict canon, a little bit of angst and some crackishness at times _

_**A/N**__**:**__ Originally written for 2011 hp_canon_fest on Live Journal where the prompt was "People always do crazy things… when they're in love."—Hercules. Thank you Urbanmama1 and WWMrsWeasleyDo for the beta work. _

_"People always do crazy things…when they're in love."_ -Hercules

You're not sure what it is even. You can't stop looking at her. Oh, Molly's pretty, no doubt about that. But, it's something else. She's round and curvy in all the right places, having gone from stick-like little girl, to what would one day be a lovely woman. It certainly doesn't hurt that she sprouted boobs long before her classmates. You're male. You're allowed to be enamoured. Your brothers say it's in a rule book somewhere, and while you usually don't believe them, even if they are older, this time it suits your purpose, so you'd like to believe they're correct on this one. Hey, even they get things right occasionally.

There she is, pretty, pretty Molly, sat at the table two rows in front of you and just off to the left, talking to a Hufflepuff girl you don't know, and who doesn't have nearly such nice breasts. You think you might have drooled on your parchment a bit, because you can't stop staring at her.

"Mr Weasley."

You hear the voice say your name, or at least it registers somewhere in the back of your mind that someone is calling out to you, but your ears hear it as some sweet melodious harmony from Molly's mouth, and now she's looking at you, and oh, she really is a lovely sight. You should tell her that it's okay to call you Arthur. All this formality will seem silly when you're taking off her clothes. Of course, you'll need a little help from your brothers to know what you're supposed to do after you get them off—and won't that be embarrassing to have to ask. They'll tease you unmercifully for days. Weeks even.

"Mr Weasley!"

"Yes, Molly dear?" You almost say the words, still firmly entrenched in the sweetness of your daydream, but then the words get angry when someone shouts "ARTHUR WEASLEY!", and you know that someone as beautiful and sweet as your Molly could never be so harsh with her words. You'd learn, years down the road and after she'd borne you several children, just how wrong a thought that was, but for now, the ideal held true in your love-struck little heart.

You look up and take a large gulp when you note how very angry Professor Browning is, who is clearly the name-shouter. It's Muggle Studies class, where you once were so enraptured with the class materials that you raised your hand, waving it madly about, to be called upon for every question. You acquired more points for Gryffindor House in that one class than you did at any other time in your academic career. But that was before Molly had sprouted those lovely perky appendages that bounced about invitingly on her chest. Now, not even the allure of a rubber duck compares. And you _really_ like rubber ducks.

Not answering the professor, daydreaming in class, staring googly-eyed at girly parts (well, that might not be a technical reason which Professor Browning pointed out, but it's the true one) all earn you a night of detention unstoppering the toilets in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you in here, Artie," Myrtle drones. You hate that name, and no one's allowed to use it except your mother… well, and Myrtle 'cause it's impossible to give a ghost a good wallop. Besides, she's a girl. Or she was. Hitting girls, even ghostly ones, is a no-no.

"Artie?" Myrtle drags out the name interminably so that it comes at you like fingernails on a black board. You put on your polite voice because you learned in Muggle Studies about catching flies with honey, and you quite believe the Muggles are on to something with that line of thinking, though you wonder what they do with the flies when they catch them.

"Yes, Myrtle?" You smile your most charming of smiles, though you can only be so charming with a plunger in your hand. You're forced to do this the Muggle way as punishment. And, if it weren't so gross and your mind wasn't so busy, you might even be enjoying yourself. Muggles are incredibly interesting creatures.

"I know a secret." Myrtle sings the words, very smug in her knowledge.

You wouldn't bother asking, but you know from past experience that Myrtle's a good source of information most of the time. It's getting it out of her that's usually the problem.

"What kind of secret?" You can't act too interested, or Myrtle will withhold the knowledge out of sheer spite. She enjoys the attention garnered from her games.

"It's about a girl."

"Well, there are plenty of girls at school."

"Not girls like this. This girl—I think you like this girl, Artie."

_No way Myrtle could know of your affection for Molly. No way. Unless…_

You give Myrtle a sidelong glance. "My brothers have been to visit you, have they?"

You think if Myrtle could blush, she would. "Only Marc. He's so dreamy." Myrtle floats about the bathroom in a haze of teenage bliss. An eternal teenager. What a frightening notion! You shudder at the thought and look at Myrtle with something akin to sympathy. "Look, over there, on the sink." She points, and your eyes follow the direction of her finger. "He brought me a flower. I wish I could hold it. It's so pretty, isn't it?" Myrtle sighs. "I think he fancies me."

"It's very nice," you say, knowing that your brother must have been in here to get a favour. A pretty big one if he's resorted to ghostly wooing. You're not sure what it is, and frankly, you're a little afraid to ask, so you move on. "So you've heard something about Molly then?"

"Yes, she's the one. But I didn't hear this from your brothers. They're not the only ones who visit me, you know?"

"Really?" You really are surprised that many people would visit Myrtle for reasons other than detention. She is known as _Moaning_ Myrtle for a reason, after all. And those less patient than you—well, you imagine Myrtle would become a true challenge to be kind to in a hurry.

"Oh, Artie, you're such a thick-head sometimes."

_And is it any wonder people don't like her?_ Really, you think sarcastically, she's such a charmer. You wait her out, knowing she'll be unable to withhold the secret for long. Myrtle is quite the chatterbox if you can stop her from whining long enough to get her talking.

"Molly Prewett, she likes my bathroom best of all. It's private in here, and she enjoys the quiet. Besides, she's got problems, Molly does. Needs someone to talk to who understands, so she comes to Myrtle, yes she does."

"What—what's bothering Molly?" You ask because you're truly concerned that Molly might have noticed your new found fascination with her tits.

"Seems someone's bothering her to go to the winter formal with him. But not the right someone." Myrtle raised her ghostly brow from behind her glasses and then winked.

"Oh, um, er," you stammer. You're very disturbed that someone else has noticed Molly too. Of course, why wouldn't they? She's simply lovely.

"Oh Artie, do I have to spell it out for you? Your brother says you don't catch on to hints all that quickly, but I was willing to give you a chance."

You frown. You're certainly not the smartest bloke in your year, but your brain does function—well, it does when you're not staring at boobies that are attached to pretty, curvy Molly. "I've got to go," you say, abandoning your detention and heading for the door.

"What are you going to do?" Myrtle calls after you.

"I'm going to pick some flowers, of course, and ask Molly to the dance before someone else convinces her to go with them." A thought invades your head. "Oh, do you happen to know who it is, Myrtle? Who wants to take Molly to the dance?"

"Oh, I shouldn't tell that." Myrtle's voice is taunting.

"What do you want?" You sigh, getting directly to the point, with little time to spare.

"You have to come and tell me every little detail of your date. Let me live vicariously?" She looks so hopeful that you almost feel guilty for living when her life was cut short.

"Deal," you say with a smile. You would have agreed even if you didn't want information from her, simply because she looks so excited for the details.

"Lucius Malfoy," Myrtle replies, and your stomach flips over. Lots of the birds are enamoured with Malfoy, and you worry that Molly, smart as she is, might be easy prey for his charms.

"Shite! I have to go and get those flowers _now_."

Myrtle touches your arm, and the cold sensation as her fingers pass through makes you shiver. "Molly Prewett is not a flowers kind of girl. Trust me on that."

"Then what?" you ask, flummoxed, frustrated, desperate and pacing. Didn't every girl like flowers?

"You have to think about her. What will make an impression? What will make her more interested in you than that poncy git Malfoy?"

Your opinion of Myrtle is improving by the second.

"Be the original bloke I know you are, Artie, and Molly Prewett will be falling all over herself to make time with you."

With those final words, Myrtle vanishes, leaving you there wondering what it takes to be "original" enough to go to a dance with a girl like Molly.

You spend the night pacing your dorm room, deep in thought, until Patrick Pennington throws his pillow at your head and tells you to knock it off. You finally crawl into your four-poster in the early morning hours and your arm slides beneath your pillow to cushion your head and brushes against something hard: a gift from your Great Uncle Bob, who likes Muggles as much as you do.

And, you know just what to do.

You push your way through the crowded corridor the next day desperate to make it to Charms class before Molly does. She arrives with a bouquet of flowers and your heart sinks a little with the knowledge that Malfoy is clearly wooing your Molly. You almost lose all confidence and take your seat, but you remember what Myrtle said, and stiffen your spine. You're better than Malfoy, and Molly's smart enough to notice that, right? Someone should tell your stomach that because it's flipping over like you don't have a shot in the world of winning a contest that contains you and someone with the name Malfoy. The Malfoys come from money. The Malfoys are prestigious. The Malfoys are—you shake the thoughts from your head and resolve to do this before you lose your nerve.

"Molly," you say, and gulp when she turns your way, placing her flowers on the table atop her Charms book.

"Yes?"

You lose your voice and settle for grabbing her wrist and pressing your prized possession, a fat Muggle battery with a 'D' upon it, into her hand. Your uncle says the 'D' surely means 'Damned Amazing', and you think he's probably correct. Uncle Bob knows everything about Muggles.

Before you can explain, the world is spinning with bright colours and you and Molly are in the Forbidden Forest at the top of a tall elm tree, each clinging to the opposite sides of the trunk, nails digging into the bark.

"What have you done?" Molly screeched. "Why would you give me a Portkey like that? Oh, oh, oh. I hate high places. Just hate them."

You think she's hyperventilating and you reach around the tree trunk and try to touch her arm to soothe her. Your gesture of kindness earns you a slap that you think is not nearly as hard as she wants it to be. It's difficult to slap someone when you're clinging to a tree for dear life. Thank Merlin for small favours.

"But, I didn't—I mean, it wasn't—Oh, God." You simply cannot explain that for which there is no explanation.

"Get. Me. Down!"

"But I didn't get us up here," you insist. "I promise. I wouldn't—I mean, I like you. I'd never do anything that would upset you or, you know, get you killed or anything."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"Was it?" you ask, tentatively hopeful.

"No."

"Didn't think so." You try to get into a position on the branch that doesn't involve your clinging to it for dear life. "Fuck," you say. "I always fuck everything up. I just wanted to ask you to the dance and—"

"You did?" Molly sounds a bit less upset. Or maybe that's wishful thinking on your part.

"Guess it would be a waste of time to ask you now, eh?" You're half-joking, half-hopeful, probably mostly insane.

"I'm not sure I'll still be alive on Saturday." Molly tries to laugh, but then she looks down and the chuckle turns into a sob. "It'd be a shame too, because Mum bought me brand-new dress robes, and they're pink and everything." Her words trail off into wails.

With nothing left to lose, you put it all out there. "Impending death not withstanding, if we're both alive, and not laid up in the infirmary dying, do you think we could maybe, you know, if you're not going with someone else we could—" You take a breath and try to control your words, then spit it out in a stream of jumbled nonsense and hope she understands. "Molly Prewett, I'd like to take you to the winter formal. Would you go with me? I mean, if I promise not to whisk you up into any trees? Which I still don't know how I did, so I probably shouldn't promise that."

"You are such an odd boy," Molly says through whimpers.

"I've heard that before. But, on the bright side, you'll never be bored."

Molly giggles. "I should say not. If I'm still alive on Saturday, I'd very much like to go to the dance with you. Might we keep on the ground on Saturday, you think?"

And with her acceptance, you both find yourselves standing at the base of the tree. Molly puts her hands on her hips. "That was a rotten way to get me to agree, Arthur Weasley!"

You hold your own hands out in supplication. "I swear, I didn't. I'll take Veritaserum or anything to prove it to you. I'm completely innocent." Of everything except staring at your tits, for which, I'm oh so guilty. You wisely leave that last part out.

"Everyone knows that wandless magic doesn't take place inside Hogwarts! You did it!"

You're not sure that's true about the wandless magic, but this is certainly not the time to argue if you want a date for the dance. "Maybe you and I are the exception to the rule? Maybe the castle really wants to see us go to that dance together?"

"You're blaming this on the building? Please, Arthur, we both know that's absurd!"

"Or maybe, it's magic," you say, and you are completely dumbstruck by the sweet smile that statement earns you. Molly, she's a romantic, and you think she likes the idea more than she lets on of Hogwarts playing matchmaker.

_Many years later…_

When the war ends, you are the first one there every morning to help rebuild the school. You need something to take your mind off all you've lost. No parent should ever bury a child, and looking at your Molly and her sad, weeping eyes makes staying home an impossibility. Keeping busy is best. You replace every brick and stone of Hogwarts School with loving tenderness, remembering the most significant way in which this school once blessed your life—not everyone gets a love like that, and you know what a lucky man you are to have had Hogwarts play matchmaker for you.

So you begin your construction with Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. You hammer at a bent and twisted spigot and smile when you hear 'Artie' said in a high-pitched whine.

"Oh Artie, you went and got old. Don't even have much of your hair left. What a shame. You should have gone and died like me. Dying's better than getting old."

You think of your eternally young son, and your heart twists painfully. There were times, many in the recent days, you might have agreed with Myrtle. Dying would be better. But not today. You've lived through a war (two, in fact, but you've done a lot of living since that first one so many years ago, so you think it probably doesn't count as much; you were too young then to fully appreciate the horrors). You've lost a lot. All for a better tomorrow, and it wouldn't be right to give up so easily. Not when others fought so hard to live and lost that battle. "Not today, Myrtle," you say. "Today's for living… and catching up with old friends." You give her a wink that makes her smile.

It's time to move forward, and you'll do it starting here, remembering where the good stuff all began. After all, it's the good stuff that's worth living for, and without You Know Who around to muck it all up, there's going to be lots more of that.


End file.
